The Mosaic of Mastery: A Dark Symphony
by firestorm26cmktellstales
Summary: In the years that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have solved crimes together, they have faced fifteen gruesome murders. They've solved all but seven. So, why exactly has the world's greatest, and only consulting detective not been able to solve these murders; even with the help of his blogger? Because they are the ones who put the bodies there.
1. 8

_Madness in great ones, must not unwatched go." - William Shakespeare._

Colin Daniel was twenty six years old. He was at The Blue Pigeon with an old mate he ran into earlier in the day having several more pints than he probably should have. His friend left early; a phone call from his pregnant wife asking for a turkey sandwich from a specific deli across the city. Colin decided to stay, and have another. There was no one waiting for him at home, so there was no one to miss him if he spent his night at the pub.

It was a few minutes past midnight when Colin finally stumbled out into the street. He hadn't driven to the pub, it was only a short walk walk to his flat, but he wasn't even sure that he could manage that, so he flagged down a cab, and slid inside.

That was the last thing that he remembered about that night.

Now, he was waking up in a place that wasn't his. It wasn't- It couldn't be anybody's place.

It was dark, except for a strange, golden glow that was coming from several exposed light bulbs hanging above him. It felt cold and hollow, and like it might go on forever.

Colin couldn't move. He tried, but there was something holding him down, and Oh, God did his head ever hurt. He knew he had drank a lot the night before, but this felt like someone had clubbed him over the head with a ton of bricks. He tried to move his arm, so he could check if he had hit his head, but he couldn't move that either. He went through the systematic checking of all of his other limbs; not a single one would move more than a wiggling of his fingers and toes.

He finally had his eyes focused enough in the hazy dim to look down at himself; he was strapped down on what felt like a sterile medical table; not the kind they put on during an operation, but the kind of slab you were thrown onto when you didn't make it.

"Hello!" he yelled, and his voice echoed back to him.

"Hello!" he yelled again.

There was no answer. No sound at all except for a drip that was coming from somewhere he couldn't turn his head to see.

Fuck. This was not good. This was the kind of thing that he didn't even read in the papers, he only saw it on TV on those criminal shows, but that wasn't supposed to be real life; things like that didn't happen in real life, so there was no way that it could be happening to him now.

There was a sound from the side of him. He turned his head and saw a figure sliding out from a dark hallway. He was a man; tall and slender, and young. He was carrying something in his hands; it looked like a tea tray, but Colin couldn't see any cups or a pot; he couldn't see anything at all.

"Oh, you're awake." the man said.

His voice was just as posh as he looked. Colin thought to himself that he didn't seem the type of man to kidnap another and bring him to some abandoned building. Men like that were supposed to be older, and have a disfigurement on their face, or be wrecked with the physical damage of alcohol and drugs, but this man was attractive. He had dark, wild hair, and wore a bespoke suit. Even his shoes were shining.

Colin watched him set the tray down on a table next to his head. There was an assortment of instruments; mostly sharp ones, lying across it.

"Where am I?" Colin asked.

"Do you honestly think I'm going to answer that question?"

The man made a _tsking_ sound, and shot Colin glare that made him feel like he was actually disappointed in his question.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"I'm aware that the intellectual state of the population is appalling, but I believe even you can make some kind of educated guess by your surroundings and the items I just brought in."

"I'm sure I could." Colin said back, "But you know how the mind works; always making things out worse than they are. It would help my anxiety if you just told me."

The man turned from where he had been standing at the sink, washing his hands. He turned off the faucet, and dried them on a crisp, white towel. He walked over, his shoes hitting the cement with a click as he took each step. He stood just near Colin's arm, and picked up a filled syringe from the tray along with a piece of rubber tubing.

He wrapped the tubing tightly around Colin's bicep, and tapped a few times at the veins in the crook of Colin's elbow. When he found one that he seemed to be satisfied with, he stuck the tip of the needle into it, and pushed down on the plunger.

It was cold, and it burned all at the same time as it hit the cells in his vein, and flowed out through the rest of his blood stream. When the needle was pulled back out, a thin line of blood trailed from the injection site. Colin watched the man put the used syringe into a biohazard box near the sink. Colin found it ironic how sterile he seemed to be.

He came back with a pair of scissors in his hands, and pressed the open blades across Colin's cheek.

"Anything you can possibly imagine is going to be nothing compared to what I'm going to do to you. That drug I just injected into you; it isn't to knock you out or make you drowsy, and though it's related to pain, it has nothing to do with making your pain go away."

He slid the scissors down to Colin's jawline, and pressed them against the hollow of his throat, down his neck, and finally clasped them into the collar of his t-shirt. He started to cut a line down the fabric, exposing his chest underneath.

"What it does is attack the receptors in your brain that control sleep; even if you wanted to, you won't be able to for at least thirty six hours. It also affects the part of your brain that processes pain."

He finished cutting the length of Colin's shirt, and used the scissors to rip away the seams of his sleeves, and then he slid all of the desecrated material away and discarded it in a bin. He traced the scissors along Colin's chest, and gathered up a slice of skin at his belly between the blades.

"Instead of dulling the pain, it's going to enhance it."

He closed the scissors around the skin, and opened them again, taking a small piece of Colin's body with.

Colin screamed, and pulled at his restraints. He bit down on his lip to ride through the pain, but even that hurt; felt like a sewing needle plunging through his lip.

"You're a bloody psychopath!" Colin yelled.

"Common assumption, but clearly wrong. You see a psychopath tortures, kills, rapes; whatever it is they do, because they need to. It's often the only way that they feel some sort of calmness, joy or pleasure."

"You mean to tell me you aren't getting off on this at all?"

"I didn't say that. I do. But I don't need to slice into you in order to. I'm more than capable of getting turned on by the sight of my lover fresh out of the shower, or his voice calling me to bed in the middle of the night, He's the only thing I need to get off. This; you, is all just an indulgence."

The man put the scissors back on the tray, and reached over to a hook in the wall, and pull down a thick plastic apron; there was still another one hanging behind it. He pulled his over his head and tied it around his back. He also picked up a pair of safety glasses and secured them over his eyes.

"Now, if you have no more comments or questions, I would really like to get started."

Colin watched him pick up a scalpel, and slowly bring it down to rest against his chest. The blade had just barely touched his skin when there was a deafening sound echoing from the cement walls.

It was the ring of a mobile.

"Oh. for God's sake!" the man yelled, throwing the scalpel down, and reaching into the pocket of his trousers.

"This better be important. I was just beginning an experiment." he said into the phone.

The man was quiet, listening to whoever it was on the other line. He nodded his head a few times, and started to pace.

"Yes. I'll be there. Text me the address." he said, curtly.

He hung up his call, and started to type out a message to someone else, and slipped it back into his pocket. He walked to the table again, and gazed down at Colin with cold eyes that showed another kind of disappointment different from the one earlier.

"I do apologize, but we'll have to delay this." He said.

He took off his apron, hung it back on the hook, and smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit. He swiveled on his feet, and went back toward the hallway he had come from, flipping a switch that turned off all but one of the bulbs.

Colin took a moment to look around, and absorb exactly what was happening to him when a terrifying thought occurred; the man hadn't hidden his face. He had the confidence that Colin wasn't going to make it out of there alive.

He started to rattle against his restraints. The way that the leather cut into his skin was like a thousand tiny blades being scraped against his wrists and his ankles.

"Hello! Anyone- Help!"

Even the scratching of his voice in his throat was painful.

"There's no use in screaming."

A small voice came from directly in front of him. Colin strained his neck to try and see.

There was a row of fencing that curved back and connected to the wall, and inside there was a small figure hunched into the corner; chains around her wrists.

"Who-?" Colin started.

"It doesn't matter who I am. And it doesn't matter how much you scream or how hard you pull on the restraints- you're not going to make it out."

"How long have you been here?"

"Seven." she answered.

"Seven months?"

"Seven bodies. You'll be number eight."

"Fuck." Colin whispered underneath his breath.

How in the hell did this happen to him? How did it happen to the seven people who had lied on this table before him? How does something like this happen to anyone?

He suddenly thought about Jane at the office, and how he had never told her how beautiful he thought she was. He thought about how his last conversation with his mum had been cut short, and he had promised that he would call her on Sunday, and they would talk all afternoon if she wanted.

Colin thought about the weekends he spent at his grandparent's estate when he was a child, picking apples from their trees, and biting into them; fresh and juicy, tasting just like Earth itself. He wanted to get married underneath those trees; bring his children there.

"Who is he?" he asked.

The woman moved away from where she was crouched against the wall, her chains dragging with her. She wrapped her dirty fingers around the lattice of the fence and looked out at him.

"He's Sherlock Holmes." She said. "The world's only consulting detective."


	2. The Beginning of the End

Sherlock's magnifying glass dragged along the flesh of the body slumped against the the cold cement. His gloved fingers wiped along its wet surface as he brought his latex into the air. "Hm. Wet..." He said as he rubbed the padding of his wet fingertips together.

His hands traced down his jaw line, stopping inside the crevice of his neck as his fingers rubbed small but prominent circles along the inside of his flesh."Mm. Swollen lymph glands." He mumbled into the air as Lestrade towered over him.

"Swollen? Why would they be swollen?" Lestrade asked.

"Because obviously he has had a viral infection of some sort." Sherlock said as he began to thoroughly examine the victim's hand. "The wetness isn't from rain or water- it's from sweat."

"Sweat? What do you mean?"

"He was sick. Sweating would of been a common symptom. So, we know when he was murdered, he was still physically unwell at the time" He paused for a moment as he examined a fresh wound carved into the padding of his index finger. "And if he was still physically unwell, do you think he would have the energy to escape a crazed murderer?"

The air went silent for a moment as Sherlock waited for an answer; but it never came.

"The answer is no." He quickly snapped as Lestrade shot him a glare.

Sherlock's magnifying glass soon hovered over the victim's forearm. As he stared through the glass he noticed a minor pinprick along the surface of his vein. He gently brushed his fingers along the expanse of his skin as he keenly examined the wound with intent.

"So, did you find anything?" Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock peered over his shoulder as he stared at the silver haired man who loomed above him. "No. I found nothing." He quietly mumbled into the air as he rose himself onto the firmness of his own two feet. "He didn't get murdered. He died from a viral infection. Now, if you would stop wasting my time, I need to go."

As Sherlock strode away from the scene he soon got stopped in his tracks by the sound of Lestrade's voice.

"Sherlock! Wait! You can't just..leave me with that.."

"Goodbye, Lestrade. Contact me when you have a real murder."

And without a word more, Sherlock continued to stroll away from the scene, he left Lestrade behind speechless.

As the cold wind blew against the curls of Sherlock's hair he passed a darkened alley-way, where he stopped. He gazed into the everlasting darkness as he watched a subtle figure move its way through the shadows.

"Hello, Sherlock." The voice spoke.

Sherlock's feet moved closer, each step slowly becoming devoured by the ominous darkness within until he was swallowed completely. He could feel the person slowly pace around his body, taking in his every detail.

"I know it's you. What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked.

The man within the shadows emitted a brief chuckle as the roughness of his hands tackled Sherlock's body onto the brick wall behind. "The body...was it yours?"

"No. It wasn't. Jesus..I have one tied up for when we get home."

The man gave a mischievous grin as his lips traced up the expanse of Sherlock's neck. "Good. That's what I like to hear. Tell me..what kind of drug did you give them?"

"The best kind. The kind that enhances pain throughout the body. Hopefully it hasn't worn off yet."

"Mhm. Well, I hope you're right." He said as his mouth nuzzled itself into the crook of Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock licked his lips as he slipped a hand up the shirt of the man pinning him too the wall. He felt the tenderness of his mouth brush along his jawline as he outstretched his neck at the sensation.

"John-"

"Shh. Don't talk."

John wrapped his hands around Sherlock's hipbones as he dug his thumbs into firmness of his groin.

"J-John, we need to go."

John pouted his lips as he slipped his hands off the structure of Sherlock's hips. "Fine. You better have a good one. You know I like the ones that squeal."

Sherlock snickered as he let a sly smirk escape his face. "Oh, don't worry, this one seems like a squealer alright."

John laughed at Sherlock's remark as he threaded his fingers through the coarseness of his sandy, ash-blonde hair. "Well, if that's the case...what are we waiting for? Let's go."

* * *

><p>The heavy metal door opened as Sherlock and John made their way inside. The single light bulb still shone bright above Colin's body as he slumped his head to the side to see the two men enter the building.<p>

"What the fuck?!" Colin yelled out, soon throwing his head back along the surface of the metal table, his vocal cords burning from the mere sensation of speaking. "Fuck." He whispered under his breath as he bit his quivering lip in pain.

"Well, looks like the drug hasn't worn off yet." Sherlock deduced with a smile.

"W-worn off? You said thirty-six hours-"

Sherlock shook his head inside the palm of his hands as he walked over to Colin's body. "No. You don't listen. I said you won't be able to sleep for thirty-six hours. The pain...well, I haven't quite figured out the formula to extend that process yet. But, I'm working on it."

"You make these drugs yourself? You're fucking sick!" Colin yelled out.

Sherlock walked up to Colin's tied up body; he picked up the same scalpel from earlier that evening as it glistened under the light of the bulb.

"John, do you mind turning on the rest of the lights? We're going to need them." Sherlock remarked as he slowly fondled with the blade in his hands.

All the globes suddenly shone bright, illuminating the room as a whole. The girl behind the fence huddled herself into the corner of her enclosure. Her ragged clothes were ripped and dirty as her dark brown hair looked like straw, not being washed for what looked like months.

"Don't worry. We're not going to kill you right away. Unlike our other victims, we have a purpose for you."

"Pu-purpose? What type of a sick purpose does this give?!"

Sherlock's scalpel brushed along the softness of Colin's cheek as he spoke. "You were right- I do make my own drugs. But, sometimes those drugs are still in the beta testing stage. And, well...it looks like this drug is included in that mix."

"So, I'm your twisted idea of some sort of Guinea Pig?!"

"Oh. God no. I would never do this to an animal. Where's the fun in that?"

Sherlock's scalpel delicately sliced into Colin's cheek, causing him to let out a wail in pain. "Fuck!" He screamed out.

John wandered up behind Sherlock, smiling deviously at the sight of Colin's struggle. "Fuck? Is that all you have to say? Come on, squeal a little louder." John taunted as he leaned over Colin's helpless body, lodging his mouth into his ear. "You're going to have to try a little harder than that." He whispered.

The burning pain of the sharp blade cutting into his abdomen caused him to scream in agony. He tensed his body up against the cold metal surface as he felt another blade make contact with his skin. His eyes widened as he saw both men in-front of him, baring individual instruments.

"Are we going to put on our aprons?" Sherlock asked as John continued to stare wide-eyed at Colin's body.

"It would be the most sanitary thing to do. But, with that being said, I think I would like to get messy for once."


	3. Take On Me

Chapter Text

"Wait!" Sherlock said.

"What?"

There was annoyance in John's voice as he laid his scalpel down to rest against his side, running the pad of his own thumb ever so gently against the blade.

"I need to gather data from him before he's too incoherent to give me anything."

John rolled his eyes, "How long is it going to take if the drug hasn't even worn off yet?"

Sherlock looked at John. His eyes were dilated and his breath was coming in short pants. He looked very much like he did in the midst of a thorough snogging, but there was still tension from his day being held in his shoulders and his neck,

Sherlock walked over to where there was a small desk, and pulled out the old chair in front of it. He turned it around so that when he sat down he would be facing John. He pulled out a cigarette from the drawer and plucked it in between his lips. He crossed one leg over the other and balanced a journal on his knee.

"Go ahead, then. I'll just gather some preliminary findings."

John smiled and walked over to where Sherlock was sitting, reaching into his trouser pocket for his lighter. John pressed his lips off center to Sherlock's, catching him a little bit by surprise.

"Thank you, love." John whispered.

"You're welcome."

"And that better be the only cigarette you've had today."

Sherlock grinned and blew out a cloud of smoke, cigarette burning between his fingertips.

"Alright then-" John said to Colin, picking the scalpel back up, and unceremoniously cutting it along the thin first layer of skin on Colin's abdomen, just above the first bleeding wound. "Should we get started?"

It was a thing of beauty to watch John work. He was so focused, falling into a soldier's stance and being so tactical and proficient in his maneuvers, but he always smiled when they screamed and when they fought.

Sherlock scribbled down notes as he watched, ignoring the itch inside his own body to stand next to John, and join. There were only two times in Sherlock's life that he felt free of the puzzles and control that ruled him; being held in John's arms after a shattering orgasm, and pushing a knife into the soft flesh of another human being.

He remembered the first time that he ever hurt someone; he was twenty, and it was a mistake. He was high, and he was angry, and the the knife was right there. It was a split second decision, and he was the one to patch up the wound when he finally realized what he had done, but it had felt good, and the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to do it again, not needed, no, Sherlock never needed it. It was surprisingly not very difficult to find other people who were interested in exploring his new hobby, but there was a moment, a moment he had a hard time forgetting where it turned from a game of sexual pleasure into something much darker.

The first time that he killed someone, it was out of the petty anger a junkie often experienced. She had taken the last of what he had, and considering it was at the point in his life where Sherlock had nothing other than the drugs, Sherlock decided that she needed to be taught some kind of lesson. He tied her up on his kitchen table, and used an old needle lying on the counter to jab into her skin over and over again, leaving angry gashes. Sherlock still wasn't sure if when he walked away, leaving her there; tied and bleeding, if he had meant for her to die, or if he simply had gotten tired, and just forgot about her.

Either way, she did die; though she would have anyway, and he disposed of her. Her case was still unsolved, sitting in a storage facility at New Scotland Yard, along with the three other junkies Sherlock killed after her.

It wasn't long after his start that Sherlock met Lestrade, and he was forced into cleaning up. When the drugs stopped, so did the darkness inside of him.

Until he met John.

John, who was now wiping a bloody wrist across his forehead, leaving a red stripe underneath his hairline. John, who had taken off his shirt some time ago, and was shining with sweat. He also had reached to a shelf behind him, and turned on the stereo. Sherlock didn't understand, but John had an affinity for listening to a mixed CD of music from the 1980's. He often set the rhythm and tone of his movements with that of the song that came on.

It was no matter, though, because he looked beautiful, and Sherlock wasn't sure how much longer he could sit there, and hold back the absolute arousal he was feeling.

"You see, Colin," John started.

He dragged his bleeding scalpel along the man's body, slowly, dipping the blade into the gashes he had already made, and slicing in a few more.

"It's important to know a thing or two about the human body when doing something like this. For instance, I have to know just how deep I can pierce the skin and tissue over your vital organs, and where all of your major arteries are. This isn't just the random hacking of a madman. I know exactly how long it's going to take you to bleed out based on every cut I've made. Right now, you should be starting to feel a little faint. Tell me, how do you feel?

"You're more sick than he is." Colin spat out, spit and blood running down his chin.

John took the blade and stabbed into the fleshy part of Colin's thigh through the denim of his jeans.

"It would do you good not to say anything demeaning about him. Not while you and I are in the position that we are."

John twisted the blade, still in Colin's leg.

"Do you understand?"

There was no answer, so John twisted again in the other direction.

"Do you understand?" he asked again.

Colin screamed, and nodded his head. Either the effects of the drug had worn off, or the pain had caused his body to go into shock, because that was the first time since the pin pricks on the bottoms of his feet that he really felt what was happening to him.

Sherlock set his notebook down, and got up from the chair. He crossed the room and pulled on John's arms, crashing his back against Sherlock's chest. John's hands, bent backwards, grabbed onto Sherlock's hips as Sherlock pushed against him while running his hands along the length of John's chest, painting away at the blood that spattered there,and teasing his fingers into the waistband of his trousers. They were one of his nicer pair; he hadn't even changed from work.

"Mmm. I was wondering how long it was going to take you." John said,

He leaned into Sherlock, letting his neck arch and his head fall back as Sherlock's hand dared to dip in lower into John's pants. Sherlock sucked at John's exposed neck, biting his thin skin between his teeth.

"You smell magnificent." Sherlock said. "Like sweat and blood. It's one of my favourite scents on you."

John's breath hitched as Sherlock's fingers brushed against his cock, and John dug in a little deeper with his grip on Sherlock's hips.

"I'm not finished yet." John said.

"Neither am I."

Sherlock licked a stripe onto John's neck, and tore his hand away from his pants. He turned John around and captured his mouth before John had even a moment to think. It was a hard and wicked kiss. Sherlock's tongue dominated, pushing John's in and out from between their mouths. He was unrelenting and unforgiving as he fucked John's mouth with his tongue. Sherlock was growling, and pushing John against the table, and John was nearly whimpering from it all.

Sherlock broke their kiss, and stood back to catch his breath, as John stayed leaned against the table, catching his.

When John finally could breathe again, he laughed. He turned around to check on Colin. The man's eyes were closed, and his chest was making slow up and down movements. John pulled out the scalpel, still buried deep in his thigh where blood was gushing down to the drain in the cement floor.

"Damnit." John said. "After all that talk I gave him about knowing the right places and timing, I let him bleed too much. You distracted me."

"Yes, I'm sure his very last thought before passing out was about how stupid you were, and couldn't torture him properly. If he's nearly dead, let's just give him the injection, and be done with this. I'm still looking to get my tongue in other places of your body tonight."

"Fine. Go and get it."

John threw his scalpel down into the sink across the room and turned the tap on as hot as it could go. He reached underneath for a towel, and brought it to Colin's body where he started to wipe away the blood, applying pressure to the wounds that were still bleeding, and using another to wipe the blood from himself. He tossed those into the sink as well, and poured a jug of bleach in with the hot water to let it all soak.

"I hate smelling like bleach." John said to Sherlock as he returned with a vial and a needle.

Sherlock only nodded in acknowledgement, and turned the vial upside down, pushing the needle into the membrane that covered the top. He filled it and set the tip of the needle to Colin's arm, and plunged it in.

"Should just be a few seconds." Sherlock said, tossing the needle into the red biohazard bin with the rest.

They watched the body start to twitch, and then finally come to a complete stand still. The substance in the vial was something else Sherlock had created. It was untraceable in any sort of tox screen, and it quickly, and amusingly enough, humanely, gave their victims their very last breath.

"Alright, let's get him out of here."

John undid the straps, and lifted him up from the table over his shoulder and disappeared into the dipped a towel into the bleach in the sink and wiped down the table, leaving it with a sparkle. He rinsed out the towels, rinsed off the scalpel and placed them all in the empty basin. He tucked his notes away in the desk, and picked up John's shirt from the floor.

He gave a glance into the cage like fence where the woman had been present throughout the whole thing, and checked that she had everything she would need for the night. When he was satisfied, he turned out the lights, and followed in John's footsteps. He met him in the back of the warehouse where he was already sitting on the drivers side of a cab. Sherlock opened the garage, and waited until John pulled out to exit himself and get in the back.

They drove not very far to a bank of the Thames, and parked underneath the shadows of a bridge. John got out and opened the boot. He pulled out Colin's body and threw him down onto the rocks and sand. He closed it up again and they drove back to the warehouse to put the cab back inside.

When they left for the night, Sherlock locked up the several rows of padlocks, and they walked together through three blocks of abandoned buildings just like their own, and then through two blocks of business until they flagged down a taxi of their own to take them across the city, back home.

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket to check the missed messages he knew that he had.

_You said there was nothing interesting about this body, but I know you were lying. He was just like one we found last week. -L_

_What do you know that you aren't telling me? -L_

_Sherlock, I'm serious. Do not withhold information from me. -L_

Sherlock typed out a message to Lestrade

_He wasn't just like the last body, was he? There was something different. Something on his finger. SH_

He put his phone back into his pocket, and sighed.**  
><strong>

The cab brought them back to Baker Street and they trudged up the stairs and inside home.

"John, there's something I have to tell you about the body at the crime scene I was at today." Sherlock said.

They had made it inside, and John was already putting the kettle on before he stripped down to take a shower.

"It was you, wasn't it? You don't have to lie to me about doing it on your own."

"No. It wasn't, but it was made to look like we had done it."

"What? Why would anyone do that?"

"I'm not sure. I'm more concerned as to how someone even knows what we're doing."

"Jesus, Sherlock, if someone is on to us, and we just did that-" John ran the palm of his hand down his face.

"They aren't going to be saying anything. At least not until their message is delivered."

"Message?"

"Yes. There was the letter Z carved into the pad of his index finger.

"That's a bit of an odd letter. Not many words start with Z."

"No, they do not."

They were both quiet for a few minutes. John went about his tea making ritual; taking the mugs down from the cupboard and tossing a bag into each of them. He stopped short as the kettle started to whistle, and turned around to face Sherlock who was still just standing there.

"This could be bad Sherlock." he said.

"It's going to be fine, John. I promise you." he smiled, "You know I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe."

"That's what I'm afraid of."


	4. 9 and 10

Sherlock could hear the shower gushing as he sat down in the loungeroom, sipping at his tea. As he read the daily paper, he noticed the headlines were highlighting the recent murder which he had just been faced with.

With a sigh, Sherlock folded up the paper and tucked it into the lounge he sat on. His ears perked up at the sound of John's shower turning off as he finished his last mouthful of tea.

He threw his legs up onto the lounge with steepled fingers- immersing himself into deep thought.

John staggered to the bathroom door with a towel wrapped around his waist. His sandy blonde hair was still dripping wet with water as he ran his fingers through its short length.

The patter of his feet against the floor caused Sherlock to tilt his head to the side as he came face to face with the beautiful sight of John Watson. The way he held his towel around his waist put Sherlock's mind inside another dimension, as he eagerly watched the thin material sway with the movements of his legs.

Sherlock leaped onto his feet, slowly making his way towards John. He placed a gentle hold around his abdomen as they seductively stared each-other in the eyes. "You know what, we should go out tonight."

"Really? C'mon, Sherlock. We do need a break at one point. Torturing is exhausting work. And plus, I need to go into the hospital tomorrow."

Sherlock's hands slowly rubbed John up and down as he placed his lips around the expanse of his neck, pecking him up and down with slow but deliberate kisses. "Well, I do know something else we could do to pass the time.."

As Sherlock's hands reached around John's towel he felt him chuckle against his mouth as they painfully hovered over one another.

"Oh, Sherlock..I'm sorry. I'm really not in the mood tonight. I honestly don't think I'll be able to get it up…. even with you there helping me."

"Who said anything about you doing all the work? Am I not allowed to give my man pleasure once in awhile?" Sherlock whispered along the rim of his mouth.

"Oh, fuck. Of course you are. Just-"

"Just what? What's the matter? You're not usually like this.."

"I just..need a break from the torturing and sex. Just for one night. That's all I ask."

Sherlock disappointingly lowered his forehead against John's. As he stared down at John's chest his eyes traced along his pectoral muscles, eventually leading up to the scar on his shoulder. The padding of Sherlock's thumb gently stroked it as he felt John plant a subtle kiss on his cheekbone.

"I think we should go out tonight." Sherlock repeated, denying John's rejection.

John let out a sigh as he pulled Sherlock off his body, giving him a stern expression. "Sherlock..I just told you..no."

"No, I don't mean for captives. Just for a drink- I promise."

John rolled his head to the side, giving Sherlock a somewhat conflicted expression. "Fine." He said. "Just let me get dressed. I'll be back in five minutes."

Sherlock shimmied to the side to let John pass him. He watched as John walked into their bedroom, not bothering to shut the door behind him as he took off his towel. It gently fell to floor as his naked body roamed over to their bed where his clothes were laid out.

Sherlock leaned against their kitchen sink, watching John from a distance. He tried not to look to give him his privacy, but every emotion he was feeling was telling him otherwise. His eyes remained glued onto John as if they were magnets.

John walked out of the bedroom in nothing more than a maroon shirt, black jacket and denim jeans. Sherlock smiled at him as he took him by the hand. "You look wonderful. As always."

John chuckled as he placed a firm hand over Sherlock's sternum. "Even when I'm not covered in blood?"

"Well, I must admit..that's sexier."

They smirked at each-other as they walked outside. Sherlock hailed a cab as the streetlights shone bright along the pathway of Baker Street. The two of them climbed into the black vehicle together, momentarily heading to the nearest pub.

* * *

><p>As the pair left the cab, they were suddenly assaulted by the sound of lights and music. The two of them entered the pub, walking to the bar as their first stop. As they both took a seat inside, a young barmaid approached them from behind.<p>

"So, what can I get you boys?"

"Just a pint of beer for me." John said as he looked over at Sherlock. "Make that two."

Sherlock said nothing as he steepled his fingers underneath his chin, staring off into the distance.

"You know, you did drag me here, Sherlock. You said a drink-"

"Yes. And you ordered, didn't you?"

"Obviously."

John sighed as he stared at Sherlock with slight annoyance- he watched his eyes scan the room while deducing everyone in it. As John opened his mouth to speak he was soon interrupted by the sight of two beers crashing down in-front him. He politely smiled at the waitress as Sherlock looked up at her in acknowledgement.

John's fingers slowly traced the lip of his glass as he continued to stare at Sherlock's wandering eyes. "So, have you found anyone yet?" He asked.

"Hm. So, you have finally decided to join me again? That was short lived."

John rose the rim of his glass to his mouth, taking a sip of beer as he spoke. "I never left."

Sherlock's eyes suddenly locked onto a young couple, no older than twenty-three years of age as they sat in the far corner together. Their hands were all over each-other, lips practically sealed onto one another as if it was their last day on Earth.

"Come on. We're going to go make some new friends." Sherlock said as he hastily rose onto his feet.

The two of them made their way over to the couple with their beers as they smiled at the pair. The young blonde sitting on her boyfriend's lap wiped the saliva from her lips as she looked up to see John and Sherlock hovering over them.

"Can I help you?" She asked with slight confusion in her voice.

"Oh, you know what...you're probably busy, I might just-"

"No. Don't be silly. Come and sit down with us." She insisted as she climbed off her boyfriend's lap. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock. And this is John."

John extended his arm for shaking which the blonde politely took. "My name is Maddison, and this here is my boyfriend, Josh"

"It's very nice to meet you both." John said as he sat down beside Sherlock.

The four of them talked for what felt like hours, they bought each other drinks while sharing stories and laughing. Sherlock decided to slip away from the table for a moment to purchase some more drinks for everybody. As he leaned over the polished hardwood countertop, he came face to face with the same waitress from earlier that evening.

"Back for more?" She questioned while cleaning a glass.

"Just two."

She laughed in amusement as she poured two more beers. She soon turned away after taking Sherlock's money to serve another couple who were sitting on the otherside.

As Sherlock pulled the two beers towards him, he suspiciously looked over his shoulder and observed his surroundings. He reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat and pulled out a small bottle of white pills. As he lowered them below the counter he unscrewed the plastic lid and tapped out two of the white drugs into the palm of his hand; he slipped the now crushed, powdered substance into the two beers as he waited for them to dissolve.

With a smile he returned to their table. The three were laughing and talking as Sherlock sat down by John's side and passed Maddison and Josh their drinks.

"After this..you two should come back to our place." Sherlock insisted as he folded his arms over the small wooden table.

"Oh, are you two-"

"Oh. No, not at all." Sherlock said with a chuckle. "No, we're just flatmates."

"Right. Of course. I'm sorry."

Sherlock scratched his head as he smiled at her reaction."No, it's fine. Drink up!" He said enthusiastically.

With their every sip, the lethal drug which Sherlock spiked their drink with slowly became apparent. He noticed their physical symptoms starting to take place in a matter of minutes: _Heavy eyes, dizziness, nausea, unsteadiness… _

Maddison clawed her forehead as Josh took a protective hold of her. "Hey, baby- are you alright?"

"I-I don't know..I- something doesn't feel right." She muttered, almost falling into Josh's arms.

Suddenly a wave of nausea hit Josh like a tsunami- he adjusted himself like he had just been dunked by a wave, struggling to come to terms with everything. He shook his head in an attempt to make himself more alert, but it didn't help.

Josh's head slowly lowered itself onto the wooden table as he managed to shoot Sherlock a glare. "Wh-what the fuck have you done to us?" He said while pausing for a moment.

The tightness in his chest caused his breathing to constrict into harsh, ragged pants as he struggled for air. "You-you've drugged us.."

Sherlock tilted his head as he watched the pair slowly collapse onto the table below.

"Don't fight it. Just let it flow through your body freely. I don't want you hyperventilating on me." He said as reached over and stroked Josh's head. "Oh, we're going to have so much fun."

* * *

><p>Josh awakened to the sound of water dripping as he struggled to move his body. The room was darker than night but he could still feel the cold air in the atmosphere brush along the surface of his naked skin. His chattering teeth echoed throughout the room as panic struck him almost instantly.<p>

"Sh-shit..what the fuck.." He somehow managed to whisper.

He bit down onto his quivering lip as he tried to release himself from the leather straps holding him in place. He pulled and yanked as hard as he could, soon coming to the realization that it was impossible- he couldn't move a muscle.

"Nine." A voice from the corner said.

Josh's eyes widened in panic as he tried to tilt his head to see who was talking to him. He could only look at the ceiling as nothing but the ominous darkness loomed above.

"Fuck. Wh-who are you?"

"My name is Chrissy. And you're number nine."

"Ni-nine?"

"Yes. And your girlfriend will be number ten."

Josh clenched his eyes shut as he furiously shook his arms against the weight of the metal table he was bound on. "Maddison? Are you there baby?"

Josh just wanted to hear her voice, hear her for one last-time so he didn't have to be alone. Time passed agonizingly slow as he waited for some sort of sound- anything.

And then, he heard it- a slightly muffled groan in the near distance.

"J-Josh?"

"Maddison? I-is that you?"

"It's me. Oh god...I'm so scared."

"It's okay, baby. Listen to my voice."

Maddison could no longer hold her tears back as she broke down crying. Her weeps echoed throughout the dark room as Josh could only listen in helplessness.

The sound of Chrissy's chains dragging along the cold cement sent a shiver down Josh's spine, he could hear the patter of her hunched feet scamper along the ground as she moved throughout her small space.

"You know..he's gonna come for you. The both of you. And he's going to tear your hearts out one way or another.." Chrissy said as she grasped the metal fence.

Suddenly a beaming set of lights turned on as Chrissy swiftly huddled back into her corner. The sound of footsteps approaching from behind caught Josh's attention in an instant.

"You're awake...the both of you. Good."

Sherlock walked over to Josh as he held a tray of instruments. Josh could only watch, as he remained petrified in fear.

"Never let a stranger buy you a drink, Josh. It could be the death of you."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I already told you. I'm Sherlock and this is John." Sherlock suddenly picked up his sterile scalpel from his tray and without warning stabbed it into Josh's arm.

The scalpel remained lodged into his skin as blood oozed out of his wound. He screamed in pain as Sherlock twisted the weapon further in. "Don't worry. John will be taking care of your girl. After all, I do prefer men."

Josh tried to capture a breath of air as he felt the throbbing pain hit him. Tears of agony streamed down his face as Sherlock continued to grind away at his body tissue, making a mess of him as slowly as possible.

John gazed at the tray of tools Sherlock had as he ran his hand over each instrument individually. "Hm. Which one do you think I should use?"

"Well, the knife is always fun. But it's just so ordinary." Sherlock said as he picked up a razor blade from the tray. "This could be fun."

"Razor blades? Really? Can't we get a bit more creative?"

"You're the Doctor...use your imagination." Sherlock replied as he yanked the scalpel out of Josh's arm.

Josh let out a wail in pain as he gasped for breath. "You two are fucking insane!" He screamed.

Sherlock smirked as he walked around the metal table, taunting him with his movements. "That's an understatement." He said as he stabbed the scalpel between his legs.

Josh let out another wail in agony as Sherlock left the scalpel lodged into his cock. He lowered himself over Josh's face, breathing in his fearful scent. "Mmm so..delectable." He said.

John hovered over Maddison's table as Sherlock watched from behind. He teased her with the razor blade, softly dragging it over her skin back and forth in a repeated motion.

"Please..don't hurt me." She plead.

John laughed at her remark as he dragged the razor blade over her flesh. Blood slowly oozed out of the clean slits and ran down the insides of her thigh without remorse. She sobbed at the motion, more scared than hurt, but it all felt the same in her eyes.

John's eyes widened in awe as he watched the flowing blood run onto the metal surface between her legs. "Oh, such a beautiful thing you are.." John said while using the bloodied razor blade to twirl her hair as she continued to weep.

Sherlock folded his arms as he leaned against Josh's metal table. He watched John's hands slowly glide up Maddison's legs before resting them on her groin.

"Oh god. Please, just let us go."

John peered over his shoulder, giving Sherlock a mischievous grin. "What do you think? Should I cut out her cervix?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in satisfaction as he walked over to John. He suddenly heard Josh scream from behind as he tried to look at the weapon lodged into his penis.

"Just get this fucking thing out of me!" He cried out.

Sherlock dropped his head back in annoyance as his footsteps turned around to meet with Josh again. "You didn't say please." He said.

Josh inhaled a deep breath as he spoke. "Please get this fucking thing out of me!" He screamed as he felt the warm blood run down his shaft.

"Hm. Well, since you put it that way…" Sherlock dislodged the scalpel from his cock and jabbed it into his shoulder. Another wail of pain shot through the room in an instant as Sherlock dabbed the sweat from Josh's furrowed brow.

"Better?" He asked with a smile planted across his face.

Josh tried to wriggle as much as he could, trying anything to free him of his pain, but nothing worked. "Fuck..just kill me now."

"Kill you? Why would we want to kill you? We're only just getting started. The human body has so many body parts and organs. It's beautiful." He paused for a moment as he stared Josh in the eyes- his glistening tears streamed down the surface of his face."Well, if you would excuse me, I need to get back to your girlfriend."

Sherlock wandered his way back over to John as he took a firm hold of his abdomen from behind. He wrapped his long arms around John and looked over his shoulder, gazing down at Maddison's naked, weeping body.

"So, what were you saying? Cutting out her cervix?"

"Well, I am a Doctor. I know my way around the human body like it's the back of my hand."

Sherlock licked his lips as he took the razor out of John's hand. "Fuck.." He whispered under his breath as he looked down at his pants.

John's eyes traced down the length of Sherlock's body, stopping on his cock. He took a gentle hold of Sherlock's body as his warm breath brushed along the expanse of his neck. "It's okay, I'll fix you up soon. This is all a bit overwhelming isn't it? Two people at once. We haven't done that since the good ol' days." John chuckled as he fondled his fingers against Sherlock's cock. "Remember the days we used to do three...even four at a time?"

John inhaled a deep breath as the memories came flooding back to him. The way they screamed and begged for their lives were the biggest turn on they had ever seen. And then afterwards, in the pools of blood, the way they used to fuck each other was exhilarating.

John dropped his head down onto Sherlock's shoulder as he felt his own arousal taking place. "Jesus..Sherlock..this might not be able to wait.."

"I know..just-"

Before Sherlock could finish his sentence, John's mouth was already practically inside his own. Their tongues slid over one another as he felt John desperately trying to thrust himself against the fabric of his pants. Sherlock suddenly pulled his pants and underwear off without a second thought, throwing them to the wayside.

John desperately lowered himself onto the cold cement as the palm of his hand hugged itself over Sherlock's hardened length.

"Oh god, John..what would I ever do without you?"

"Probably crash and burn." He said before unexpectedly wrapping his warm mouth around the length of Sherlock's cock.

"Just like the old days, eh?" Sherlock said with a chuckle.

John pulled himself off Sherlock as he gazed into his beautiful eyes. "Just like the old days." He concurred with a smile before resuming his previous position.


	5. How We Got This Far

_Sherlock kept looking at John from the corner of his eye. He still couldn't believe that he was there, that he was standing next to him, a knife in his hand and blood spattered over his face like someone had shook a paint brush against it. John knew so much, and it wasn't just from years of study of the human body, no, there was something in John's past, something that Sherlock had missed. He knew that John could be a killer when he needed to be, but this was different. This was want, just in the same way that Sherlock wanted it._

_"Are you still with me?"_

_John's voice came over the sudden silence that filled the room. The woman, whose name John had kept saying, but Sherlock already deleted (it was better if Sherlock didn't remember their names), stopped screaming and crying, and was just lying there; bleeding and broken._

_Sherlock moved his gaze to look directly at John, and oh, was he a beautiful sight. Sherlock had always thought so, but now more than ever John was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It had been a long time since Sherlock equated his hobby with sex, but watching John; the way his muscles flexed, the way he licked his lips, and sliced into another person's body, making them writhe and scream and cry, stirred parts of Sherlock he thought he had lost some years ago._

_"Yea, I'm here."_

_"What do you want to do with her?" John asked._

_"I want to keep her. She's interesting."_

_John laughed, "Interesting?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Alright. This is your thing, Sherlock. Do whatever you'd like. I'm going to start cleaning up."_

_John took off his gloves and his safety glasses and tossed them into the sink that was across the room. He untied his apron and did the same. The gloves would be tossed away into the biohazard bin that John brought into the hospital when it was full to be properly disposed of, but he still liked to wash them._

_Sherlock wiped away the blood from the woman with a warm cloth. She was still awake, but her eyes kept fluttering open and closed._

_"She's going to need a few stitches." Sherlock said._

_"Get the kit from the back. I'll take care of it in a second."_

_Sherlock left to grab the small medical kit they kept in the back of the warehouse . He pulled his gloves, glasses and apron off as he went and tossed them into the sink where John was finishing washing up his. They switched places when Sherlock got back, and John went about stitching up some of her deeper wounds. When they were finished, John undid her restraints, and lifted her from the table. Her limbs were weak, and so John hoisted her over his shoulders. Sherlock nearly fell into the sink watching John drag 136 pounds of dead weight across the room._

_John put her into a fenced off area that created a cage and locked her inside with a padlock._

_"Are you ready?" John asked. "I could use a cuppa."_

_Sherlock hung the now clean aprons up on their hooks and set the glasses on the shelf above._

_"Yes, I'm ready."_

* * *

><p>John pushed himself to his feet, and stole Sherlock's mouth for a hard, bruising kiss. Sherlock wrapped his arm around the back of John's neck, tasting himself on the other man's tongue.<p>

"Do you feel better now?" Sherlock asked when they finally released one another.

"I do. Thank you."

Sherlock laughed, and re-dressed.

"Good."

He kissed John one more time, and let it linger before breaking away, and picking his scalpel back up. They both walked back to their respective tables, their respective victims, and got back to it.

Josh was nearing a blackout, but Sherlock could tell that he was holding on for the sake of his girlfriend, who was almost hysterical underneath John's hands. Sherlock wanted to shut her up, to slap her until she got the hint, but he wouldn't. He knew that John liked it, though he had no idea why. Sherlock had heard a few of the sexual trysts John had taken a part in, and though Sherlock could always hear the women, they weren't what he would consider overly loud, and when he and John had sex, John enjoyed Sherlock's exaggerated moans and cries, but again it was nothing over the top; nothing that John seemed to need from him.

But now he was relishing in every single anguished cry Maddie was making, pushing her to make more.

"Stop it! Please! Leave her alone; just kill her and be done!"

Sherlock crossed the room in three short strides and pressed his face against the fence where the pleas were coming from.

"Do keep your mouth shut, or I will cut your tongue out of it." he hissed.

Chrissy stared at him. Her scared eyes started to change, and Sherlock felt a thrill inside his stomach as he watched them harden and lose their fear second by second.

"You won't. You never have." she said, her voice calm and smooth, "You like her too much."

"It's not her I like. It's you, and everyone else."

Chrissy smiled, almost seductively, apparently forgetting that she hadn't been bathed in months.

"Do you want John to stop?" he asked her

"I don't care much what the two of you do."

"Good, that's very good."

Sherlock walked away from her. Chrissy had several different personalities, which was why Sherlock decided to keep her around. He liked to see what brought each one of them out, and how different they were from one another. This one, this calm, collected and somewhat dark women had developed during the time of her captivity; a byproduct of being present for every kill.

* * *

><p> <em>"Being home afterward was always strange at first. The normalcy and the domesticity was such a juxtaposition of the warehouse and the activity that went on there that it took Sherlock a while to adjust. John took his shower first and started on cups of tea while Sherlock took his.<em>

_They didn't talk about it at home; preferred to leave both of the worlds separate. Sherlock sat in his chair and blew over the rim of his mug John left on the table. John sat across from him, laptop open._

_"There were a few promising emails this morning. Would you like to go over them?" John asked._

_"I trust you'll only choose good ones." Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand._

_"Alright. Well, I'll respond to them in the morning." John closed his laptop and set it on the floor, "I'm a bit done in for the night."_

_John got up from the chair, and started to bring his mug into the kitchen. He stopped just before the threshold of the two rooms and turned._

_"Try and get some sleep, Sherlock." he said, and kept on his way._

_Sherlock wasn't going to get any sleep. Even if he wanted to try, he didn't think that he would be able to. Every time he closed his eyes he saw John covered in blood, smiling in a way that Sherlock had never seen until a few weeks earlier. The attraction he felt for John only intensified when they started doing the tortures together. It was getting harder to ignore it._

_Sherlock jumped up from his chair, and made long strides across the living room, the kitchen and up the stairs to where John's door was partly open. Sherlock pushed it open the rest of the way, and leaned against the frame. John was lying in bed, soft light from a lamp in the corner casting a glow over his skin; his golden, naked skin._

_"I've laid like this for the last three nights. I was wondering how long it would take you to come up here." he said._

_"Why didn't you just tell me?"_

_"You're Sherlock Holmes. I thought you knew."_

_"I didn't know this." Sherlock said._

_"Well, now that you do, come in."_

_Sherlock pushed himself away from the frame, and walked into the bedroom. He closed the door behind him. John shifted up into his knees, and reached out for Sherlock, slipping his hands underneath the thin, cotton fabric of his shirt. John's fingers felt like silk against his skin, and he closed his eyes. John pushed Sherlock's shirt up farther and pressed his mouth against Sherlock's abdomen. It was light and gentle;, but then there was a nip of teeth that made Sherlock's body jump and his eyes pop open._

_"Come here please."_

_John asked of Sherlock, pulling on his wrist to bring him down onto the bed. Sherlock got up on his knees as well, and roamed his eyes along John's body. He started to imagine what it would like covered in blood; someone else's blood, his blood. That image sparked something inside of Sherlock and he came out of the stupor he entered into the moment he opened the door._

_Sherlock pulled his shirt over his head, and grabbed John by the dip of his hips, bringing their chests together. Sherlock buried his face in John's neck, and slid his hands frantically along the expanse of his backside, down over his arse. John panted and sighed at the touch, he rocked his body into Sherlock's, not even trying to have any control over himself._

_"I want you Sherlock. I want you so much." he said, stretching his neck out so Sherlock could lav and suck and bite at even more than he already was._

_Sherlock growled in response, and pushed back against John until he was lying flat on his back, legs still bent underneath him. Sherlock moved his mouth down his body, tasting every piece of him that he could. He was frantic, they both were; getting lost in one another._

* * *

><p>"That was exhausting." John said.<strong><br>**

They had returned home, as clean as they possibly could get with the soap and the sink in the warehouse, but most of the blood was being covered by their coats, which they didn't take off until they got upstairs.

"Yes it was. But you and I have a case to solve, and I wanted to do just one more before we're too busy."

"We have a case?"

John was crossing through the flat toward the bathroom, and peeling his clothes off as he went. Sherlock followed with an amused smile spread over his lips. John went into the bathroom, and Sherlock stood just outside.

"Someone committed a murder that intentionally looked like our doing, only they left a letter; a clue of some sort. I'm not sure whether it was a clue for us or the Yard, but either way, someone know what we've been doing."

John started the shower, and was holding his hand underneath the spray, checking the temperature was right before he got in.

"I don't see how anybody could know." he said.

"Well, someone does."

As Sherlock spoke he was undressing; toeing off his shoes, unbuttoning his trousers and his shirt. He was as naked as John and waiting for him to deem the shower acceptable. When John pulled back the curtain the both of them got in, and shared the hot water from the spray. The leftover blood on their bodies slid down to the bottom of the tub and swirled away down the drain, washing the last bit of life of their victims away forever.

John took the flannel that laid across the faucet and balled it into his fists over and over again underneath the water and then squirted soap from Sherlock's over- priced bottle of tea tree oil and other minerals he used to wash himself with, and began to run it across Sherlock; his shoulders, his pectorals, his abdomen. It was slow and lazy, and John's hands were gentle and safe.

"I love you." he whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"Why do you want to be in love with a madman, John?"

"When the madman is you, the question is how can I not be?"

The flannel dipped into Sherlock's pubic hair, and John's fingers brushed against his cock. Sherlock rested his head against the wall. The night had been exhausting, and it was the first time in a long time he was looking forward to crawling into bed, and maybe never getting back out, especially not if they brought this; this languid, lingering want for each other in there with them.

Because it wasn't often that they were gentle with one another; they were always making love, but they expressed it with pain more often than not. There was a collection of accessories they kept underneath the bed; toys, small knives, the riding crop, a few pairs of handcuffs, and some chemical mixtures Sherlock had made special for the two of them. That was how most nights happened; that was how they liked it.

_But this_ - John wrapping a towel around Sherlock's wet body and leading him by his hand into the bedroom, John pulling the covers away, and lying down on the mattress, and looking up at Sherlock, silently begging to be touched. Sherlock slotting his knee between John's legs and slowly kissing up his body until he found John's mouth. Sherlock teasing his long fingers over the length of John's cock and swallowing every _oh_ and _ahh_ that escaped from his lover's throat. - _this was..._


	6. Holes of Emotion

John snaked his arm around Sherlock's back as they cradled each other naked in bed, staring into the distance. "That was amazing." John said as he crawled onto Sherlock's lap where he planted a subtle kiss onto the firmness of his lips.

"Likewise my dear, John. Likewise."

"So much for me not wanting to torture and have sex.."

Sherlock snickered at his remark as he slowly stroked the length of his arm. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist."

"You do know my weak points, don't you?"

Sherlock took hold of John's hipbones as he stared him directly in the eye."Of course I do. I am Sherlock Holmes after all."

"You may be Sherlock Holmes but that doesn't give you any right to brag about it." John teased as he pushed himself off the bed.

Sherlock sighed as he watched John pull on his pants. "Where are you going? Can't we just lay here for the rest of the day? And forget about this ridicule world."

"Mhm. I wish I could. I really do." John paused for a moment as he looked at the watch sitting on his bedside table. "But I need to feed Chrissy."

"Oh, who cares about her! She can wait. We fed her yesterday."

"You're right. We did. But if you want to continue having accurate examination results from her, she needs to be fed."

Sherlock let out another sigh as he rose onto his feet, placing a gentle hold on John's abdomen. "Well, you know where to find me when you're done." He said as he picked up John's shirt from the floor. "And I'll let you know if I hear anything more from Lestrade about our newly formed case."

John smiled as he done up the buttons of his shirt. "I'll be back soon." He said as he walked out the door.

* * *

><p>"Leave me alone!" A voice frantically cried as she dug her fingernails into the ground, trying anything to get away from her abuser.<p>

The man;tall and gruff with short blonde hair hovered over his victim. He let out a sly smirk as he aggressively punched her in the face. The force of the blow plummeted her into the ground as she sobbed through her bloodied tears.

"Please! I'm begging you! Leave me alone! I'll give you whatever you want!" She plead with fear in her voice.

The man stood over her, almost smiling in amusement. "You don't have anything I want. How I'm murdering you...it isn't my choice. All I'm doing is following the steps provided."

The woman cowered as she attempted to speak through hyperventilated tears. "Mu-murder? Oh god." She broke down inside her knees, weeping for help, for courage- anything. Anything to get her through this alive. All she wanted was hope. Hope that everything was going to be okay. But, she knew she was going to die. And it wasn't death that frightened her, it was the thought of the unknown.

"I'm sorry." The man said as he clenched his fist around the collar of her shirt. "But, I don't have a choice." He reached into his pocket where he pulled out a razor blade. It was sharp and crisp as it glistened under the solar beams of the sun.

Without hesitation, he dragged the razor blade across her neck, slitting her throat within an instant. She coughed and spluttered as blood oozed out of her throat, running down her chest without remorse. As she fell to her knees in one last hope for help, she took hold of her murderer's shirt while slowly falling into to the ground below. She laid on the dirt, wide-eyed with fear as her bloodied neck spilled out onto the Earth. Her last breath was spent trying to scream for help, but the words never came- she was helpless, just like the two victims before her.

The silver razor blade dripped blood as the man hovering over the now dead woman, knelt down onto one knee. He brought the razor to the back of her ear, where he gently but precisely started to carve out a letter inside the flesh of her skin.

* * *

><p>John knelt down outside of Chrissy's cage as he gazed at her demented form. "I don't know what Sherlock finds interesting about you. You're just as crazy as everyone else out in that twisted world." John sighed as he stared down at the bowl of food in his hands. "Anyway, here's your meal for the day."<p>

John began to slowly unlock the padlock as Chrissy watched with intent. The metal fence opened as Chrissy huddled herself into the dark corner while her chains dragged along the cement floor.

"Eat your rice. It's the only meal you're going to get for twenty-four hours."

"You can go get fucked!"

She frantically tried to run towards John out of aggression, but the chains which bound her to the wall soon stopped her in her tracks. She continued to furiously pull against her chains as she watched John lock the fence behind him.

"Screw you!" She screamed out as she furiousily kicked her bowl of rice over. "You and your fucking rice can go get fucked!" Chrissy paused for a moment as she bowed her head, staring at the cold cement below, she emitted a devilish chuckle as her hair draped over the expanse of her face. "But then again, I don't need to tell you to get fucked when you have someone to do that for you."

John stopped in his tracks as his hand hovered over the light switch. "Yeah, you're right. Do you think I would be ashamed of that?"

"No. Obviously not. The amount of times I have sat here and watched you two screw each other is fucking unbelievable."

John gave a devious smile as he peered over his shoulder. His footsteps traced back to the cage where he knelt down onto one knee to meet with Chrissy's sneering face. "And tell me...did you like it? Did you like the fact Sherlock's dick was inside of me? Did it turn you on?"

Chrissy crouched on the spot. She glared at John as his smile grew wider with delight. Her head slightly tilted to the side as her darkened eyes stared into the pit of his soul. "DId it turn me on? That's funny."

"How so?"

"It didn't turn me on. But, I wouldn't be able to say the same thing about Becky."

"Who's Becky?"

Chrissy gave a somewhat conflicted expression as she grasped the metal fence within her grasp. "You're staring at her."

"So, Becky comes out to play when you're turned on? Interesting." John said as he grasped the metal fence. "So, tell me...is Becky turned on now?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Why would I tell you? Just so Sherlock can write it down inside that twisted journal of his?"

"You wouldn't still be alive unless you have been useful- which you have been."

"Useful? How?"

John snickered into the air as he gently brushed his hand against the rough of Chrissy's knuckles. "Pure entertainment, my dear. Entertainment and study."

"I-I'm entertainment?"

"Of course you are. Who needs to capture multiple different personalities when you can get them all in the one package. You my dear, are a rarity. That's why he likes you."

Chrissy snarled at John as he laughed at her reaction. "And as long as he remains fascinated by you, don't expect to be murdered anytime soon. Because I can assure you, as soon as you cease to be of use, he will kill you."

Chrissy smiled deviously as her eyes remained interlocked with John's. "Well, I look forward to it." She taunted with a blunt, shallow voice- a voice which was capable of expressing her deepest, darkest emotions in an instant.


	7. A Soldier's Secrets

"John, I need you to tell me everything you did in the Army that you haven't yet."

They were back at the flat, Sherlock standing in front of the mirror where he had taped up all the information Lestrade let him have as they left the crime scene. They were expecting the call that morning, but what they weren't expecting was the third body lying tortured, bloody and mangled next to the two they left the night before.

Everything on her body was nearly the same; the same amount of craze, the same tools, and the same needle marks on her arm. The only difference was that there was a letter, a small G carved into the skin just behind her ear. She also was the only one with any ID; Sarah Brett of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; a translator, and home on a short leave. The victim from the day before was also home on leave from the very same company, only he was a medical officer.

They were both a bit younger than John, and he swore that he didn't know who they were. Lestrade was worried that the killings might be something to do with John; after all, it wouldn't be the first time that they were a target of some admirer gone off their rocker, and Sherlock had to agree. There were no such thing as coincidence, and even if there were, this wouldn't be one of them.

Which is why Sherlock needed to know.

"John-" he said, when John didn't answer.

"I can't tell you."

"There's someone copying us kill for kill , and targeting the same company you once served in, so you will tell me!"

"It's classified, Sherlock! If I tell you I'll be committing treason!"

"Well, that won't be the worst of your crimes in the last twenty four hours, now will it?"

John looked at Sherlock with that defiant stare he got when he slipped away from being John and into being Captain Watson, but Sherlock only stared back, more than happy to wait him out.

John sighed, and dragged his hand down his face, "Six months before I got shot, I was taken off from my medical post and given a special assignment."

"Special assignment?"

"Yes. There had been a rash of fire fights all over the region, and beyond in some others. Which, isn't anything out of the ordinary, of course, except they all happened on tactical missions; missions that were supposed to take the other side by surprise, only they knew- and we were ambushed every single time."

"So someone was giving them information; letting them know when you were coming. It isn't unusual for someone to sell secrets to the enemy in war. They generally pay better."

"No, it's not. It's also not unusual for the betrayed side to want to find answers, and that what I was tasked with; getting information from those otherwise disinclined to share."

Sherlock figured it out then. He knew where John's predilection for torture and pain came from. He watched John look away as he spoke, as though he was ashamed of the things he did, though Sherlock couldn't understand why. John was the sort of man who understood duty, who understood war. He had killed men in battle, lost men and women he couldn't save afterward. And though he might not have known it until the first time he stuck a hot poker into the skin of someone else, or pulled off a fingernail for the first time with a pair of pliers, he was doing something he enjoyed; something that had been a long dormant part of him.

"Did this operation have a name?" Sherlock asked.

"Gezan."

Sherlock nodded his head and looked back at the photos on the wall- Z and G on the bodies.

"Lestrade was right. This is about you."

"It was secret Sherlock. The only other people who knew about it were the other three people on my team, our commanding officer, and his above him."

"Could be one of them."

"I don't think so. It changed us all. We more or less just wanted to put it behind us. Two of them got married and started a family, the last moved to America." John laughed, a bit low and bitter, and looked down at his hands. "I guess some of us moved on better than others."

"John, what you do now, what we do is different. You're not doing it out of a misguided fidelity to Queen and Country, you're doing it because you want to. And if you ever don't want to-"

"No, Sherlock." John said, getting up from the chair and going to stand next to him at the photos. "I don't want to stop. That's not what I'm saying."

"Did any of them die?"

"Two did. We didn't tell their families the truth, of course."

Sherlock pulled his mobile out from his pocket, "Their names."

"Private Alys Daniels and Captain James Brett."

Sherlock typed the names into the phone and pressed send, "Mycroft will gather all the information he can find. They're our best lead for now."

"Sherlock, if this comes out; what I did, it's going to jeapordise everything that you and I have."

"It won't John. It will be fine."

"It doesn't matter though, does it? We're more than just that, aren't we?" John asked.

"Of course we are."

Sherlock bent down and placed a kiss on John's lips before staring back at the photographs. It would be at least an hour before Mycroft got back to him with any useful information; more if he was busy with something else or if he just in general wanted to annoy his little brother. Sherlock needed to know how this copycat knew what they were doing. If he was only making the kind of marks that John would, things he learned in the Army, then Sherlock wouldn't be so concerned, but there were cuts and slashes that were signature to Sherlock.

He couldn't remember if the other bodies started before his and John's. He needed to see any case file, resolved or unresolved that had anything similar to these.

"John, we need to go to the Yard." he said.

John sighed in that way that said he was put-upon, but in reality, he was not. They both shrugged their coats over their shoulders, and left.


	8. Double Trouble

Sherlock tilted his head as he stared down at the cold, broken corpse in-front of him. He flicked through the victims case file as John thoroughly examined the body lying dead in-front of him.

"Sherlock..does this look familiar to you?"

"Yes. It does."

John suspiciously peered over his shoulders as his voice dropped to a low whisper. "This is identical to our first kill together Sherlock."

"I already told you. I know."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me. But you can't make a scene out of it."

"Make a scene? Jesus Sherlock..what if this person has been following us from our very first kill together?" John ran the palm of his hand down his face in attempt to compose himself. "What are we supposed to do about this?"

"Nothing. Leave them."

"Le-leave them?"

"Yes. They don't care what we're doing. They are more interested in getting their message delivered to us."

Sherlock snickered as he parted the victims hairline with his latex gloves. The victims scalp was mangled and bloody as his magnifying glass hovered over the distinct wound carved into the top of his head.

"What did you say the name of the operation was again?"

"Gezan."

Sherlock's fingers slowly stroked the scar as John looked on from the distance. "Well, it looks like we just found the letter E." Sherlock said.

John stared at the letter for a moment before speaking. "So, I guess that confirms it then- whoever this person is, they have been following us from day one."

"No. They haven't been following us. They have been following you."

The sudden sound of Sherlock's mobile phone startled the two of them as it rang inside Sherlock's pocket. As he held the device up to his ear he heard Mycroft's voice on the other side.

"Hello dear brother. I got your text."

"Yes. Now, do you have the information I requested?"

"I do. But why? Who are these people?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out-"

"They're dead Sherlock. What information could you possibly want from two corpses?"

Sherlock chuckled as he began to pace the small room back and forth. "You'd be surprised."

"Well, I think you should come and see me." Mycroft said. "It's important."

The phone suddenly went dead as Sherlock slowly lowered the device from his ear. John pushed the corpse back where it came from as Sherlock shoved the phone back into his pocket.

"We need to go see Mycroft." Sherlock said.

"Why? What information has he obtained?"

"I'm not sure yet. But it's important. It's best that you come too."

"Of-course I will."

* * *

><p>The short haired, blonde male sat inside his ramshackle house while drinking his beer and watching television. The sun struggled to shine through the clouds as the wind outside picked up, slowly blowing through the trees leaves.<p>

The sound of desperate cries for help caused him to drop his head back in annoyance as he lazily slumped himself away from his lounge. His feet pattered down the wooden hallway before he came to a set of wooden steps. With his every step the wood creaked, sending the spine-chilling sound echoing into the basement below.

With just a flick, the light turned on. He came face to face with a sobbing woman- her hair was coarse and ragged while her black mascara ran down her face colliding with her tears.

"Please.." The young lady stuttered with a quivering lip.

The blonde man eagerly creeped up to the cage with a devilish smile on his face. The way his yellow teeth reflected his sun damaged skin caused her stomach to churn.

"Please? Is that all? You're gonna have to try a bit better than that."

"Just let me go." She managed to mutter out through never-ending tears.

The man laughed with a hint of amusement. He gently reached through the bars of her cage where he gently stroked her face back and forth which caused he to cry even more. "Shh. Don't cry." He said. "I'm sorry. This is taking longer than I originally anticipated."

"W-what do you mean?"

"Well, I thought you would be dead by now. But I just don't know what I'm supposed to do with you yet."

"You can let me go! Please!"

"No..I can't. I don't know how many times I have to tell you." The man stopped talking for a moment as he stared into the young girl's eyes. They were riddled with fear which caused his grin to grow even wider. "You're all the same. Crying, complaining….begging."

"Wh-what are you going to do to me?"

"Well, isn't that a good question. You're going to end up dead one way or another. But, when and how still remains a complete mystery to me."

The woman inside the cage ran the palm of her hand down her face as she felt the feeling of hopelessness finally devour her as a whole. Her tears suddenly stopped shedding as her chains scraped along the cement below. She backed away into her darkened corner where she calmly sat on the cement, waiting for her fate to become sealed.


	9. Not a Murderer, But an Enthusiast

John and Sherlock were in Mycroft's office in his home. John was certain he's never been in the place where the elder Holmes lives, and it felt strange. Sherlock was pacing back and forth, reading through the files his brother handed to him, and John can only stand. He doesn't know how much information Mycroft was able to find, but the way he kept glancing toward him made John think it was quite a bit.

And then John started to wonder how much Mycroft knew about his brother's after dark activities. It seemed strange that he wouldn't know anything, after all, Mycroft made a point of knowing everything, and John knew that Mycroft would do anything to protect Sherlock. He and John were the same in that manner.

"Alys Daniels had a sixteen year old son, Alexander, when she died." Sherlock said, "And he was very angry at his mother's death."

Sherlock handed over photos from the file of a young blonde man attached to a sheet of crimes three pages long.

"Most children are when they lose a parent to the war." John said.

"He doesn't think that she was just killed in action. He's been convinced that she was murdered."

Sherlock handed John more papers; letters Alexander had written to the Army, and to the Queen herself calling for an investigation into his mother's death. John couldn't even read more than one of them. Because it was true. Everything this young man thought about his mother's death was the truth, and John was the cause of it.

"I think this is probably our best lead then, yea?" John offered, handing the papers back to Sherlock.

"More than likely."

Sherlock re-assembled the file, and handed the other back to his brother.

"Thank you Mycroft, that's all we'll be needing."

Mycroft nodded, and John followed Sherlock out of the house.

"Sherlock, how much does your brother know about-"

"If he knows anything, he's never let onto it. He's good at keeping secrets, granted, but not from me. I doubt he knows anything at all."

"If he did-"

"He wouldn't do a thing about it."

John took a skeptical breath, and held pace with Sherlock as they kept walking.

"you think its him then; Private Daniel's son?" he asked.

"I'm almost certain of it."

"But how did he know about me? How does he know what we do; exactly what we do?"

"I don't know." Sherlock stopped and turned to grin at John before starting again,"but we're going to find out." he said.

"Sherlock, no. We are not going to break into a murderers house."

"We've done it before, and need I remind you that the murders he commits are a copy of ours?"

"I dont-I don't consider myself to be a murderer."

"What do you consider yourself to be then?"

John stopped walking, latched onto Sherlock's hand, and tugged him into his body.

"An enthusiast." he said with a smile, and kissed him.

They broke apart, and kept walking a ways before catching a taxi.

"And how do you know this is a good time? John asked.

"He works the second shift at a mens retail shop; won't be home for hours."

"What if its his day off?

"you worry too much."

"And you don't worry enough."

Sherlock smiled, and set to looking out the window.

* * *

><p>Alexander Daniels' home was normal. There was nothing inside, once Sherlock managed to get the window open and squeeze himself in, leaving John to wiggle in after him, that said a depraved killer slept in the bed and ate the food in the fridge, of course there was nothing inside of their own flat to suggest the same of them either.<p>

Except for maybe the skull on the mantle, and the body parts in the fridge, and the weapons collection underneath the bed, and the journal of poisonous substances on the nightstand. But those were for science, and Sherlock's own morbid curiosity into things; they had nothing to do with his sociopathic tendencies to murder. Mostly.

Everything was neat and orderly; photos of Alexander with his mother, friends, and other family members lined the walls and the tables. There were homey and comfortable blankets folded into a corner.

"Well, he wouldn't do it at home, would he?" John said, picking up a book and setting it back down.

"No, but there has to be something here to give im away."

"Is there in our flat?"

"He isn't us."

"You mean he isn't you."

There was a noise from below them, a kind of knocking, followed by what sounded like a faint voice. Sherlock gave a quick glance to John and jumped over the chair he was standing behind, following the sound. There was a bookshelf pressed against a section of the wall. Sherlock pushed it out of the way and found a door that was padlocked.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his lock pick. it only took a few minutes for it to click open. The voice turned into cries, and then into pleas as Sherlock creaked down the steps, John behind him. It was dark, but there was a sliver of light coming in from a crack in a boarded up window that allowed them to see a blonde woman tied up in the corner.

She was dirty, missing her shoes, and the sleeve of her shirt ripped and hanging off from her shoulder.

John immediately set to kneeling down in front of her, and untying her hands, despite her initial protest. Sherlock dismissed her altogether, and disappeared behind a column.

"It's alright." John said to her.

When she was untied, and finally calmed down, her hands clutching at the fabric of his jacket, John gently pulled her away, and wiped her hair away from her face. John could see what Alexander saw in her. Her skin was a perfect porcelain; the perfect canvas for the deep red blood inside of her to run down, and she was soft to the touch; a knife would go a long way against the lines and curves of her body, and the way she was crying, and whimpering before she found breath and comfort inside of John's presence was just…

But no, that wasn't what he was there for. There were some people whose lives he took, and others who he saved.

"Get me out of here." she said.

"I will." he said, pulling her up to her feet, and letting her lean against them.

"Sherlock!" he called, having no idea where he went to in the dark of the basement. "Sherlock!"

A voice came from behind him, and then a light from above them that was so sudden John felt blinded.

"I'm afraid your partner is a bit tied up at the moment, Dr. Watson."


	10. Resistance is Futile

John's eyes fearfully widened as he felt the blonde by his side desperately clutch her hands around his waist.

"What have you done with Sherlock?" John asked in an almost threatening tone.

"Just a minor sedation. Nothing he can't handle."

"Take me to him. Right now."

John watched as Alexander slowly lowered his torch, devilishly smiling at John's remark. "Trust me..I had all intentions on taking you to him." Alexander said as he curiously tilted his head, staring at the young sobbing girl by his side. "And don't worry; you're coming too."

She looked up at Alexander with red and puffy eyes. She struggled to speak through her weeping tears. as she clenched onto John's sleeve. "Wh-why me?"

Alexander smiled as he agonizingly made his way down the wooden steps. They creaked with his every touch as he shone the torch over her face. "It was always supposed to be you. You were meant to be the one on that table." he said.

Alexander deviously smiled as he agonizingly fondled with the light in his hand. The room was dark all but the beam he held. "And...well, you two got here earlier than what I had originally anticipated." he said. "I see you cracked my message before I even had the chance to finish it." Alexander said with a sigh as he slowly moved closer. "And to think I still had two letters left to carve out. You're just too smart for me, John."

"Hm. So..why bring up Gezan now? What do you want?" John asked.

"You're really asking me that?" Alexander said as he shook his head inside the palm of his hands. "I thought that would be a pretty simple observation."

John simply furrowed his brow as he angrily snarled at Alexander's remark. "Just take me to Sherlock."

Alexander smirked as he walked closer to the two. He was soon face to face with John as he evilishly looked him up and down. "My pleasure." He said before spinning on the heels of his shoes.

* * *

><p>The three of them walked into a dark, musty room. The only light in the room was the bright spotlight shining heavily over the expanse of Sherlock's chest.<p>

"Sherlock.." John said.

Alexander walked over to Sherlock's sedated body as he gently stroked his hair with the back of his hand. "Shh. Don't wake him. He won't appreciate it."

"Wa-wake him? What are you talking about? He's awake."

Alexander chuckled as he slowly traced his hand down his luminous skin. "Oh, trust me. He is far from awake. He may look conscious but on the inside he is in a completely different world."

John hastily ran over to Sherlock's drugged body and pulled him up into the firmness of his arms. "Sherlock. Can you hear me?"

"He can't hear you. Don't worry..he will come out of it soon. Just in time for-"

"Just in time for what?"

Alexander smirked as he picked up a blade from his assortment of tools. He slowly fondled with it in his grasp as he creeped up behind John's body. He stared down John's spine and pictured each vertebra snapping into a million little pieces. As his breath brushed against the hairs of John's neck, he outstretched his arm, bringing the blade to the surface of his neck. "I don't ask for much John. All I want is your head on a stick...and his too."

John straightened out his posture as his mind went into military mode. He felt his survival instincts kick in as the shimmering blade slowly taunted his taut skin. "But, I want you to do it. I want you to be the one to cut off Sherlock's head. Maybe I can add it to my collection."

"Collection?"

"Oh yeah. You see, after I found out my mother was murdered- I went ballistic. At first, I was angry, but then a sudden calmness came over me, and I knew what I had to do."

John gulped as the pressure against his neck increased. "You had to find me. But not just find me...murder me."

"Oh yeah. But then when I found out, this is what you do..as a hobby. Oh my god. It was just so fucking delicious. I couldn't contain it. John Watson- the Army Doctor, turned serial killer. It was almost worth my mothers death."

"If you're going to slit my throat do it already. But leave Sherlock out of this."

"No. I can't do that. I'm not an idiot. If I kill you, and let him live. Who do you think is going to be number one on his hit list?"

Suddenly John heard a groan emit itself from underneath him. He hesitantly looked down as Sherlock's body awoke in a confused daze.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?" John asked.

"J-John? What's going on?"

"It's okay. You're okay." John said with reassurance in his voice.

Sherlock pulled at the leather straps binding him to the metal table as he frantically looked at the silver blade pressed against John's throat.

"Alexander.."

He snarled at Sherlock as he pushed John's skin to the brink of breaking point. "Relax. If I wanted you dead...I would of killed you already."

Alexander swiftly took the blade off John's neck as he pushed him towards the table. "Shit." Alexander whispered. "I almost forgot about the blonde whore in the room."

He spun on the heels of his shoes as he came face to face with the girl. She uncontrollably sobbed on the cold cemented ground as he placed a firm hold around the length of her arm."You're pathetic." He spat as he brought a clenched fist into the air- taunting her with his dominance as he spoke. "Is the only thing you can do is cry? I'm sick of it. You're supposed to be happy!"

She continued to weep through hyperventilated tears as she tried to cower away from his grasp. But she was only punished as a result- Alexander's fist plummeted down into her face. The force of the hit knocked her to the ground as she let out a painful moan.

As Alexander towered over the blonde's whimpering body, he viciously yanked her hair. He pulled her head back so hard she thought her neck was going to snap. The blood running down her face soon collided with her tears as she got thrown back to the ground like a piece of garbage. "Now, don't go anywhere." he said. "You get front row seats."

John's eyes scanned the room as he gently traced his fingers over the assortment of torturous weapons in the room. He held a scalpel firmly in his hand as he slowly began sneaking up behind Alexander's body. "Front row seats? For what?" John asked.

"Well, for the show of-course!"

John suddenly stopped in his tracks as Alexander turned around. He swiftly hid the scalpel behind his back as he sneered at Alexander's grinning face. "What show?"

"Well, I thought that the answer would be fairly obvious, considering you're in it."

John looked around the room while feeling quite uncomfortable in the circumstances. His sweaty palms clasped the scalpel tighter behind his back as his eyes nervously traced the room.

"Oh, John. No need to be nervous. I'm not going to hurt you. Hell. I'm not even going to hurt Sherlock."

John gulped as he took a step closer to Alexander. "Not going to hurt us? I hardly believe that- you're just like us. Torture is your indulgent."

"You know what..you're right. Torture is my indulgent." Alexander said as he took a step forward, now coming face to face with John at eye level. He brought the rim of his mouth to John's ear where he whispered inside. "But..that doesn't mean I need to be the one inflicting the pain. I get off on watching others do it too."

John gulped as his clammy hands continued to hold the scalpel tighter than ever. Just as he was about to take his aim into Alexander's carotid artery, he suddenly stepped back.

"Do you take me for some type of idiot? I know what you're hiding behind your back. You may as well throw it away- it's useless."

"Not completely."

"Yes it is. The only time I want that blade near my skin if you're planning to fuck me afterwards."

John remained silent as he slowly backed away, holding the scalpel out in-front of him with an outstretched arm. "I know exactly where to slice you. I can make you bleed out within minutes."

"Yes. You do that, Dr. Watson. Show everyone the monster you really are."

Alexander smiled at John's silence as he continued to back away to Sherlock's table.

"Aw. What's the matter? Are you scared?" Alexander teased.

John's snicker hit the air as he felt the back of his legs finally hit the metal table. "No. I'm not scared. I just know now, that there is no point in killing you."

"No point? Well, I have to disagree."

"I mean...killing you would just be a waste of energy not to mention time. I wouldn't gain any sense of satisfaction from it at all."

"Well, I suppose that's what this is about after all. Tell me John, were you satisfied when you carved into my mothers flesh?"

John evilly smiled as he stabbed the scalpel he was holding into one of Sherlock's leather straps. "She screamed and begged for me to stop and I'm not going to lie- I loved every second of it." John said as he chuckled by Sherlock's side. "The more she cried for help, the more I carved out of her. I eventually just slit her throat as she gagged on her own vile."

Alexander's face was emotionless as he began to pace towards John again. "Well, now you're going to know what it's like to lose someone you love." Alexander said. "I'm going to make sure you feel the pain I felt." He said while walking up to the metal table Sherlock laid on.

The scalpel imbedded inside Sherlock's band was soon re-met with its owner. Alexander held it firmly within the palm of his hand as he slowly began to pace Sherlock's body.

"It's quite simple John. If you don't torture Sherlock- everyone here dies."


	11. Twist and Bleed

John laughed, "Do you honestly think you can overpower me? I've seen your victims; none of them look like they could put up any kind of a fight, and Sherlock; well, you just had the element of surprise with him, but I'm a trained soldier who keeps himself in shape. I could kill you where you stand before you even had the chance to make a move."

John stayed still. Alexander walked up to him, the scalpel poised in his hand. He stopped when he got close, and placed the sharpest point of the blade at the skin just underneath his eye. John still didn't make a move, even as it broke the skin with just a tiny prick.

"Do it, Captain Watson. Until I tell you to stop."

"I won't."

"Do it!"

The blade cut down the thin skin of his face, and curved into the dip of his nose. John instinctively flinched backward at the pain, and put his fingers up to the blood across his face.

"Do you have anything else aside from the scalpel?" he asked.

"What did you use on my mother?"

John reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a black switchblade.

"Use that then." Alexander said to him.

John took in a deep breath, and turned around. Sherlock was still a bit groggy from whatever it was that he was sedated with, so when John looked at him with the hopes that maybe there was a plan in eyes, and saw nothing there, John knew he didn't have a choice.

They did this to each other before, but it was different when it was controlled, when it was in their bedroom with the promise of an orgasm at the end of it. The only thing John was certain he could promise Sherlock now- was death.

John flipped open the knife, and brought it down to the skin of Sherlock's stomach. He traced the metal blade along, and Sherlock sucked in a breath. He changed the pressure until he was able to slice into Sherlock's skin, pooling out a bit of his blood. Sherlock only flinched at the cut, because it was his body's natural reaction to do so, but he didn't make a sound. John was certain it would take a while before he did.

"Don't hold back on the account that you love him." Alexander said, sliding up behind John, and looking over his shoulder.

John gouged a bit deeper, and he saw Sherlock bite down on his tongue. He didn't want to, he was trying so hard not to, but the more he cut, and the more Sherlock fought against any sort of response, the more John wanted to keep going. He had taken off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. There was barely between the waistline of Sherlock's trousers and his neck that didn't have a mark on it. Though most of them were shallow, a great deal of blood was smeared along his pale white skin, and it was a beautiful sight.

Sherlock only flinched, and bit down on his now bleeding lip, and stared; stared as John started to move the blade deeper and deeper into wounds he had already made.

"It's okay, John." Sherlock said.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for enjoying it. I would hope that I'd be the most enjoyable of your victims."

John laughed despite himself, "You could maybe make a little bit more noise."

"The gash near my hip; put your blade in it; twist it."

John did what Sherlock asked of him. He found an open wound and slipped the blade of the knife inside, and turned it, slowly, feeling the drag of tissue that it took with it. Sherlock opened his mouth, and let out a low moaning sound that turned itself into a shout.

John watched the blood pour out, and fall onto his shoes. He tried his best to stay shallow, to stick to the places on Sherlock's body that wouldn't cause much damage, but the longer he kept at it, and the more of his body that he covered, the cuts were deeper and the bleeding harder to manage.

Alexander's laughter came through the air as Sherlock's yelling calmed back down. John turned to see him leaning against the wall and running his fingers through the long hair of the girl. She was still crying, but less forcefully now; either the shock had worn off or was starting to finally set in.

"You are more messed up than I thought you were." Alexander said. "You love this man; you have a life with him, and you're more than content to stand there and slice into his skin until he dies."

John charged toward him with the point of the knife pointed at his throat, "I am not fucking content to kill him. You on the other hand, I have no problems. Do you know that your mother was the very first person I killed willingly? I didn't have to; she didn't even know anything, but she was so close to the end of her life anyway. And it felt amazing to watch her life slip away right in front of me."

Alexander stared at him, and took his fingers away from the woman's head, pushing away from the wall,

"Good. I hope that it feels just as amazing to watch his life slip away right in front you."

He handed John a syringe. John didn't need to ask to know what was in it. He swallowed hard, and started to walk back toward Sherlock; weak and bleeding all over the floor. He had the needle set just at the skin of Sherlock's forearm. Alexander was behind him, hovering over his shoulder, breathing against the back of his head.

John didn't hesitate. He had been in a soldier's state since seeing Sherlock on the table, and he knew what he had to do. John turned, hooked one arm through Alexander's and plunged the needle deep into his neck, holding onto him until he slumped down to the floor. John let him go, and went over to Sherlock's side, unstrapping him from the leather cuffs. He reached for towels on a shelf that was next to him and pressed them against the wounds.

"God, Sherlock, I'm sorry. Shit!"

Sherlock was bleeding through all the towels John had at his disposal, and his eyes were fluttering closed even though John could tell he was settling to keep them open.

"I can't. I can't take you to hospital, but these need medical attention. I'm going to clean you up, and do the best I can, okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

John left him on the table to root around in a small bathroom he found in the corner looking for a medical kit. He found a half empty first-aid kit, and more towels. In another room he found a sewing machine. John took the spool of thread that was sitting next to it, and ripped off the needle. He tied the thread around and brought all of his supplies back.

It took a long time, seven wounds stitched together in all. John shoved the towels into a duffel bag he found; towels from Sherlock's wounds, towels from cleaning up the blood on the floor and the table with two bottles of bleach, which he also shoved into the bag along with the syringe he pulled out from Alexander. He put Sherlock's shirt back on, and rested him in a chair. He made sure that every trace of them was wiped clean.

The woman was still sitting tied up, and watching. She had quieted down, under the assumption that John would be taking her with when he left. John wanted to take her with him; he did, but he knew that he couldn't; not after what she saw, and what she heard.

He reached behind himself into the waistband of his jeans and pulled out the gun he hardly ever left the flat without anymore.

"I'm sorry." he said to her, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet went straight through her, and John searched around until he could find it, and put it into his pocket before helping Sherlock out of the chair, and leaving the house with him.


	12. Lucy

Sherlock hissed at the pain shooting through his veins as John gently dabbed his wounds with a wet rag.

"I'm sorry. I need to clean them regularly. God knows what nasty infection you could get."

"It's fine." Sherlock said as he clawed his forehead. "I'm fine."

John slowly looked up into Sherlock's eyes as the warm water ran down the expanse of his naked chest. As John continued to squeeze the warm sponge, Sherlock dropped his head back on the chair he sat on- inhaling a deep breath.

"I hope that feels okay?" John asked as he bit his bottom lip.

"Yeah..it feels nice. Thank you."

The white cloth continued to make its way over the expanse of his body as John deliberately squeezed the wet material in all the right places, causing Sherlock to suck in another deep breath.

"There's something on your mind." John said.

"I thought you would know that by now. There's always something on my mind."

"Sherlock..that's not what I meant- this is different."

"Mhm. Maybe you're right."

John's eyes widened slightly as he stopped dabbing the length of Sherlock's body. He simply held the material in place as he gazed into Sherlock's eyes; searching for some type of answer- for anything.

"Look..Sherlock. You know I would of done anything I could to prevent the pain I inflicted upon you."

"I'm not angry about that. You needed to do it. And to be honest- it felt good-"

"But?"

"But.. I think capturing and torturing people, is out of the question for me right now. If you feel confident enough in yourself to go solo for a couple of weeks- you're more than welcome too, but I won't be there to help you."

"Sherlock..I wasn't even going to bring it up. You need to recover." John said as he bowed his head and slowly licked his lips. "And besides..if you need a fix, we always have Chrissy and-"

Sherlock furrowed his brow which caused John to stop what he was saying mid sentence, like he already knew what he was going to say "And who?" Sherlock asked almost angrily.

"Well, myself of course. I tortured you..it's only fair if I return the same gesture."

"John..I'm not going to torture you. Not under these circumstances. This is different."

John chuckled as he removed the wet cloth from Sherlock's body. "Well, you're going to need a fix sooner or later. Trust me, the withdrawal symptoms are going to be hell." John paused for a moment as he opened his mouth to speak. "Wait..you're not planning to give this up entirely..are you?" John asked,

"What? Ofcourse not. Don't be so ridiculous. This is only temporary."

John bent down between the space of Sherlock's thighs as he took a gentle hold of his hand. "I hope so. Because I'm not ready to give this up- not yet."

Sherlock ignored the pain for a moment as he leaned in towards John's mouth. Their lips hovered over each other for a short period as he spoke. "We're not giving up on this. Just consider this..a temporary break. But, like I said- if you feel confident enough in yourself to continue this alone, I'm not going to stop you."

John rose to his feet with a smirk as he placed the palm of his hand over his chest. "I don't need your help. But, the satisfaction is never one hundred percent when doing it alone." John sighed as he dug his hands into the fabric of his pockets. "And plus, I want to look after you."

"Don't worry about me. I'm fine." Sherlock replied.

As John threw Sherlock his shirt, he smirked. He gazed at Sherlock's stitched flesh while he watched him button up the white material- concealing all of his flesh wounds as if they were nonexistent.

"I need to go and check on Chrissy. Stay here. I don't want you straining yourself." John said.

"Check on her? Can't we just leave her?"

"Mm. You seem to forget- she is still human, and does need to be fed."

"Not at the moment she doesn't."

John smirked as he picked up his jacket. He grasped the doorknob as he looked back at Sherlock's body sprawled over the lounge. "I'll be back soon." He said.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes as he scratched the back of his head. He flung his legs onto the couch before watching John walk out the door without a word.

* * *

><p>As John approached the abandoned warehouse he opened up the creaking door. The room was dark as he heard a rustling sound come from Chrissy's cage. Her chains dragged along the cement making her presence distinctly noticeable. John flicked on the light switch, calmly walking towards Chrissy with her usual bowl of rice in hand. As he knelt down outside her cage she snarled him, staring at the rice like a ravenous animal would stare at its prey.<p>

"You're late." She said through gritted teeth as her hands clasped the cold metal bars she squatted behind.

"We were busy." John replied.

"Yeah..I'm sure you were." Chrissy sarcastically replied.

When John looked into Chrissy's eyes he could notice something different about her. Her eyes were different; they were full of determination and confidence.

"So, who are you today? This is new." He said.

Chrissy chuckled as her hands clawed the cement she sat on. "I'm whoever I want to be. You can call me Lucy today." She stated.

"Lucy? I'll be sure to tell Sherlock that."

John slid the rice into her cage as she hungrily stared at it. Her pupils dilated at the mere sight as her hands ran through its grain. She let it flow freely around her fingers for a moment before she devoured the entire bowl full.

"Hm. Never seen you do that before."

"It's amazing what someone will do to savour each taste when they're suffering from starvation."

John smirked as he crouched in front of the fence. "I can only imagine. Tell me, how many people do you have hiding inside that demented brain of yours?"

"Enough to drive a person insane. How about you? Do you suffer from split personality disorder or do you just suffer from Scopophilia?"

"I suppose you could say yes to that. And post traumatic stress disorder. Anything else you want to know?"

Chrissy smiled as her dirty hands clasped the fence again. "Tell me...when you carve into the flesh of an innocent. What do you feel? Does it make you feel calm?"

"Calm is an understatement. When I set that blade into the flesh of another human being, it's better than sex. I can feel my blood pumping so freely. When my blade is inside another living being, I can't help but think of that weapon as an extension of myself."

Chrissy smiled as she dragged her chains away from the cage front. She creeped into her darkened corner, watching John from a distance. "Please, do carry on." She said.

"Carry on? There's nothing to carry on with. I see Lucy is a very smart girl. I wish she had made an appearance earlier."

"Sometimes you just need to leave the best ones until last."

John chuckled as he grasped the fence, trying his hardest to look Chrissy in the eye. "Well, I can't wait to see who else you have hiding in there." He said.


	13. Getting Away with Murder

When John got back to the flat, Sherlock was absent from his place on the sofa where John had left him. John toed off his shoes, and walked through into the kitchen with the intent to make himself some tea when he heard the shower running down the hall, and made a new plan.

He opened the door, and walked into the steam.

"I think she has a new personality." John said.

Sherlock peered out from the shower curtain as if making sure it was John in the bathroom with him, and then quickly closed it.

"I'm having a hard time knowing if she's developed them or if they were always there. Was this one assertive as well?"

"Yes."

"Interesting. I can't wait to dig into her brain and see what it looks like."

John laughed, and opened the cupboard behind the door. He pulled out several clean towels, closed it again, and left through the door that connected to their bedroom. He stripped the bed of the duvet and the sheets and the pillows, leaving just the bare mattress, and laid out the towels.

Sherlock acted like he wasn't bothered by what happened in the basement of Alexander Daniels home, but he was, and John was too. He was having a hard time sleeping, because every time he closed his eyes he kept seeing his knife dig into Sherlock's skin, and he remembered how much he enjoyed it, and not in the way that they enjoyed marking each other during sex. It was different than that. John enjoyed knowing that Sherlock's life was in his hands, and that he was taking it away from him rather than giving it back.

Sherlock might not have wanted to even the playing field between the two of them, but John needed to.

He took his knife out from the drawer of the nightstand and set it atop the dark wood. He stripped off his clothes, and laid himself on his back on the towels, and waited.

When the bathroom door opened, and Sherlocck walked through into the bedroom, his body still wet from the shower and running his towel through his hair, he stopped short when he saw John on the bed.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"I need you to do this." he answered.

Sherlock tossed his towel onto the floor, and stood next to the bed.

"No." He said.

"Sherlock."

"There's no need for this. I'm not upset with you; you did what you had to do, and the fact that you enjoyed it-"

"Bothers you the same way it bothers me." John finished for him when Sherlock trailed off. "So, take the knife, and do it."

"I told you-"

"Sherlock Holmes, if you don't pick up that knife and cut into me like a fucking roast on Christmas, so help me."

Sherlock laughed even though it wasn't very funny. He took a deep breath, and picked up the pocket knife left on the nightstand. It was heavy in his hand, and he stood feeling the weight of it. After a beat, he opened it, and ran the tip of the blade very gently along the pad of his thumb.

It was another beat before he climbed into the space between John's legs, and settled in on his knees. He brought cold steel to warm flesh, and made small cuts that drew just a little bit of blood. John squirmed a little underneath the touch. As Sherlock continued on, John realized that he was following the same pattern John had done to him, only he was staying shallow and at the surface.

"You can go deeper." John whispered.

"I'd rather not."

"Deeper."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and sliced into John, quickly. John cried out, even though he was expecting it. Sherlock did it again, and then again, still following the pattern of his own wounds, and going deeper into John each time. He stopped at one point, and slid the flat surface of the blade through the blood seeping from John's body down toward his hip.

"This is going to hurt." Sherlock said before putting the tip of the knife into the gash there and twisting.

John screamed, and arched his hips, trying to get closer and further away from the pain all at the same time.

When Sherlock slid the knife back out, he threw it down onto the floor.

"That's enough." He said. "No need to bring you to the verge of death. And I'm nowhere near as good with a thread and needle as you."

John weakly laughed, and laid there as Sherlock brought in warm cloths to wipe away at the blood. He also brought their medical kit, and dressed a few of the larger wounds that needed it. John sat up slowly when he was finished, and wrapped his hand behind Sherlock's neck to drag him down into a kiss.

"Thank you." he said.

"I do hope you feel better."

"I do."

John slid from the bed, and helped Sherlock put the towels into the laundry hamper, and then went into the kitchen to make tea and sandwiches for lunch.

John was just setting lunch down when footsteps were heard from the other side of the door, and then there was a faint knock before their door opened.

Lestrade walked through, holding papers underneath one of his arms. He waved a hello.

"I wanted to come by and let you know that we closed the case of those serial murders." Lestrade said.

"Oh, that's great." John said to him, carefully sitting in his chair.

"Yeah. Looks like the last girl he had might have had a little more fight in her than he thought. Looks like she shot him. He still managed to put a bullet through her brain."

"It's a shame she didn't get away."

"Yeah. It is. It's also a shame that you and Sherlock didn't tell us, and left us to answer a call that came in two days later."

"I'm sorry?"

Lestrade held out the papers he had been holding in his hands, and showed them to John.

"CCTV caught you and Sherlock leaving his home. Not only that, but I checked with the coroner, and this is at least an hour after they were both dead."

"The case is closed Lestrade, why does it matter?" Sherlock snapped from where he was standing by the window.

"It matters because you were the last people to see our suspect and his last victim alive. It matters because you hung around afterwards, obviously collecting your own evidence which you didn't share with us, and it matters because you forgot to take the one thing you were likely looking for. And it was out in the bloody open!"

Lestrade then threw down a manilla folder on John's lap, which when he opened it John saw Alexander's notes on John and his mission in Afghanistan.

"I'm guessing you didn't want the Yard to know about what you got up to during your service, and it was right there on his table in the living room. You two walked right passed it, and left it there."

"We must have missed it." Sherlock said.

"You don't miss anything."

"There's a first for everything isn't there?"

Lestrade sighed, and picked up the papers from John's lap. "I'm just trying to make sense of what happened."

"It was like you said. We went there to confront him, were brought into a scenario with him and the woman, and they did both manage to kill one another, and then we looked for information he might have on John. It may seem unbelievable that I missed that file, but I did. We were in a bit of a hurry."

"And when did you clean up?" Lestrade asked.

"No idea what you're talking about." Sherlock said, turning his back to the Detective Inspector.

"Right, well, for being the smartest kid in the room, you sure are clueless today."

"If that's all you have for us Lestrade, you can be going now."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, "Yeah, that's all I have." He went to the door, and turned around just before turning the knob.

"One more thing though, you've a little bit of blood seeping through your shirt." he said to John, and walked out the door.

John looked down to see a small red spot on his shirt.

"Shit. He knows." he said.

"He knows something, but he doesn't know enough."

Sherlock moved from the window, and started toward John.

"We need to do some clean up." he said, "just in case."

"Clean up?"

"Get rid of everything in the warehouse. Just for a while until Lestrade stops being paranoid. We won't go right now, that would be too obvious. But later."

"When you say everything, Sherlock?"

"Yes, we'll have to get rid of her too."

* * *

><p>It was darker than usual in the warehouse, and the sink was running, hot water filling the basin and threatening to spill over onto the floor. A great deal of the tools that were kept on a shelf near the back were scattered across the sterile table in a puddle of the blood, and the cage was empty. Sherlock's notebook was on the desk, bloody fingerprints across the paper and the rushed notes he had written down in pencil.<p>

There was a creak of the heavy door being opened, and closed. They should have heard it, but hidden away in the shadows they didn't. They should have seen Detective Inspector Lestrade walk across the cement, and take in the scene laid out in front of him with wide eyed horror.

They should have noticed all of it, and if they had then perhaps they could have had a chance to run out from the back. Yes, he would have found Sherlock's notebook, and yes, he would have figured it all out (if he hadn't already), but at least then maybe they could have had a chance to run, could have saved themselves from making the decision they were going to have to make if they stepped out of the shadows.

But they didn't hear him, and they walked out of their corner, covered in blood and laughing.

And the three men stood there, staring at each other, all realizing that they walked into a situation they would rather forget, but each of them knew that they couldn't let the other trespasser go.


End file.
